


All your blood for the sweetness of her laughter

by leiascully



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: smut_tuesdays, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-18
Updated: 2008-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:12:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew Laura was there before he even got to his cabin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All your blood for the sweetness of her laughter

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Season 4  
> A/N: Happy [**smut_tuesdays**](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/)! See, [**angiescully**](http://angiescully.livejournal.com/), I told you it was angsty smut. Kisses to [**coffeesuperhero**](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/) and [**ranee42**](http://ranee42.livejournal.com/) for peering over my shoulder. Kisses to Jeff Buckley for "Lover, You Should Have Come Over", which is where I got the title.  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

He knew Laura was there before he even got to his cabin. A trace of her perfume lingered in the corridor - he wasn't sure where she was still getting perfume, but he could find her in a room as if she were a beacon drawing him on - and her guards stood at attention outside his door.

"Haskell, Percy," he nodded at them.

"Sir!" They saluted, snapping even straighter, and opened the door for him. He stepped inside, enjoying the feeling of fullness in the room. She brought life to it, even asleep. The main lights were off, just a lamp lit on the desk. He could barely make out the shape of her bundled into his rack. He smiled and shrugged out of his jacket, trying to be quiet. Having someone to come home to made his quarters a lot more like home. He liked solitude, but he had been a long time lonely; it was nice to remember, for a while, what company could be with someone not subordinate to him. He eased off his shoes, wriggling his toes, and stretched out on the couch.

"Bill," she said out of the darkness, "what are you doing?"

"I thought you were asleep," he said, sitting up.

"I'm not." Her voice was clear but tired.

"Usually you're awake," he said. "I didn't want to wake you."

"Can't sleep," she said. There was a rustling noise as she turned over. He could see the dim oval of her face. "I don't mind you waking me. We hardly get to talk, these days, but then, I'm not always very good company."

"I didn't want to presume," he said. "When I invited you to stay here, I wasn't...I wasn't presuming that your consent implied anything about our friendship."

"An admiral and a gentleman," she said, amusement rich in her voice. "What were you expecting when you asked? Not martinis on the table and a hot dinner ready?"

"Be an improvement over the mess," he said, leaning forward and propping his arms on his knees. "I just wanted to save you the trouble. It's hard enough to do what you're doing without shuttling from ship to ship."

"It's not hard to die," she said, and something in him twisted. She sighed. "I'm sorry. The diloxin is terrible for my mood for some reason."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "How are you feeling?"

She shifted again. "Cold."

"I can turn up the heat if you'd like."

"No, no." She moved her feet restlessly. "Don't go to any trouble."

"It's no trouble."

"Please," she said, "I'll feel better if I'm not interrupting your routine."

"It's the least I can do," he said. "I'm not that easily put off, Laura. Let me help you."

She opened her mouth and paused. He let the silence sit between them. "Could I have a glass of water?" she said finally, and the pleading edge to her voice startled him, as if she thought he'd refuse.

"Of course," he said. He filled a glass from the carafe on the table and crossed the room to her. It was odd to come to his own bunk like a stranger or a supplicant. He sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress - she was in the middle of the bed and he was nearly on her hip as it was - and handed her the glass. She sat up to take it, drank half, and leaned her head back against the top of the bunk, sighing.

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes closed.

"Don't apologize," he said. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

She let her head fall to one side, looking at him. "This can't make your life easier."

"I just keep you around because you're decorative," he said. She sniffled, laughed, and drained her glass. Her fingers were limp and he took the glass from her and put it in the niche. She was watching him, her hair tousled around her face and her pupils large. She looked exhausted, but she managed a weak smile; there was a crease at the corner of her mouth he'd never seen before. She reached up and put her hand on his thigh. Her fingers were so light he could hardly feel them through the thick cloth of his uniform, but it sent an electric little thrill through him anyway.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

"You're welcome," he said. "I'm sorry my shift is different tonight. Usually I'm in the CIC."

"I know," she said. "I've noticed, the past couple of months. You must be tired."

"The couch is plenty comfortable."

"You're not sleeping on the couch," she said, and for a moment, she had her old wry sharpness. His heart squeezed.

"I'm not letting you sleep on the couch," he said. "You need your rest."

"Well, I'm absolutely not letting you sleep on the couch in your own quarters," she said, "so we seem to have reached an impasse." She patted his leg a brisk little tap. "Therefore, Admiral, I believe I shall have to petition you to share this bunk with me."

He cleared his throat, trying to thwart the yes that wanted to be said. "I'm not sure that would be any more comfortable for you than the couch."

"To be frank, I'd appreciate the warmth," she said, her mouth crinkling into a smile and then smoothing out again. "We can talk about the good times on New Caprica, and how the once and former President of the Twelve Colonies fell asleep on your shoulder and drooled on you."

"That was the best time on New Caprica," he said, stalling for time. The thought of waking up next to her was almost too sweet to bear. He flinched away from it. It would make every other night colder, while she was alive, and when she wasn't, the memory wouldn't be enough to sustain him.

"For me, too." She had gone quiet again. He looked over: her eyes were closed, her brows drawn together slightly. Her fingers trembled a little on his thigh. He put his hand over hers.

"I always denied any accusation that I was in bed with the government."

"Looks like you spoke too soon. Technically, even now we are in the same bed." She opened one eye. "If it's the rumor mill you're worried about, I can move to other quarters."

"Frak the rumor mill," he said with a vehemence that surprised him. "It was never having you _here_ that worried me."

She opened both eyes and looked at him with a sudden compassion. "There's still time, Bill."

Something in him loosened or broke. He could deny himself the comfort of her body, but he couldn't deny her whatever she might get from him. He toed his shoes off and swung his legs up into the bunk; she slid down into the circle of his arms as if she belonged there, pillowing her head on his chest with a murmur that sounded as if she were choking back tears.

"So," he said, and he could feel his voice rumbling through the space inside her so that his arm vibrated where it was pressed to her back. "New Caprica. They were good times."

"Gods, what a hole," she said, and buried her face against his neck. Her body shook as if she were weeping, but only one or two tears fell on his skin. He stroked her back until she quieted. She gave one last sniffle and rolled onto her back. Their shoulders crowded against each other.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's come over me."

"It's all right," he said. "Would you like a drink?"

"You know, I think I would," she said. He slipped his arm from under her and went to the cabinet, pushing aside his things until he found the little flask of Aerelon whiskey. He poured a finger and a half into her glass.

"Drink it slowly," he said, handing it to her.

She breathed it in, sipped, and exhaled. "It's good."

"It should be. It's the last bottle I have."

She looked down at her chest and tugged her shirt. Her cleavage was full of shadows that drew his eyes. "Nothing but trouble," she said.

"I never noticed anything wrong with them," he said, and she laughed.

"Thank you, Admiral." She took another sip and set her glass on the headboard. She lifted her hands and began to undo her buttons one by one, her fingers slow and deliberate. He waited, swallowing against the swell of longing. She wasn't wearing a bra and her breasts seemed vulnerable somehow, exposed to the faint light in his cabin. He wanted to cradle them in his palms and press his heart against hers. She regarded the slope of her chest dispassionately, sliding down deeper into the bunk. "I can't say they've brought me anything except a death sentence. You wouldn't know to look at them, would you?" Her voice wavered. "You can't even feel the lumps anymore."

"I'm sorry, Laura," he said.

She smirked. "What for?"

"For wasting time," he said. He touched her face with his fingertips. Her smirk went crooked and turned into something that was almost a smile.

"I was having an affair with Adar," she said. "He was going to fire me for doing my job."

"Adar was a fool," he said. "Without you, we'd all be dead."

"I'm not the military power that's protected us all this time," she said, leaning into his hand so slightly he almost thought he imagined it. Her breathing sounded like an effort.

"Never underestimate the necessity of hope," he said. "Without your faith, there'd be nothing to live for. That's just as important as ammunition."

"Even a savior needs redemption sometimes," she said. "You know that as well as I do." She reached for his hand, her fingers cool and smooth, and drew his hand down to her breast. He longed for his youth, for the ability to whip her up in his arms and worship her the way she deserved. Under his hand, her breast felt whole and sound, and it was strange to think he'd never known her at a time when the cancer wasn't seeded through her body, waiting to take her from him. He could hardly breathe for fear he'd wake up or that she'd come back to her senses and pull her shirt closed again. His fingers stroked her breast, desire overpowering his instinct to be still. Her nipple tightened under his hand and her chest flushed, dusky rose in the dim. His hand strayed down; he felt the gentle ridges of her ribs underneath her skin, and the softness of her belly above where the sheet was swaddled over her hips. He drew his fingers from the notch at the base of her throat down between her breasts and over the rise of her ribcage to her dimpled navel, over and over, feeling her skin warming and softening at his touch. She turned her face into the pillow, her eyes closed, and twisted her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him. He kissed her cheekbone, letting her body fit against his.

"You're beautiful," he said at last, when she didn't move. She shifted her head back on the pillow, blinking slowly as she looked at him.

"It's funny," she said, her lips pressed into an enigmatic smile. "I thought that desire would be the first thing to die, and yet I find that I still want so much."

"What can I do?" he asked. "Let me help you, Laura."

"Remind me what living feels like," she said.

"You're tired," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me," she said. "Besides, that's living too." She leaned forward, his hand slipping back under the loose fabric of her shirt, and brushed her lips against his. Her mouth, like her hands, was dry and cool, the skin a little chapped. The touch of her lips shocked him like static electricity. He wanted to lay her down and soothe her skin with lotions. The diloxin was killing her; he saw it day by day as he sat at her bedside. The only balm was that it was a slower poison than her own blood. He was going to lose her either way and it was only a matter of time. No strategy could save her, no special mission. He pressed his mouth hard against hers and her lips parted; he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. His hand slipped to the back of her head and he kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck, her forehead, desperate to love her. She clung to him, her body trembling. His throat was tight with emotion.

"Show me," she whispered. She buried her face in his shoulder, pushing her hands under his shirt until he had to lift his arms so that she could drag it over his head. He pulled her into his lap, gently wrestling her out of the unbuttoned shirt. Her legs were bare; he hadn't noticed, under the blanket, that she was wearing his shorts and nothing else. Her skin was still smooth and fine despite everything. Under better circumstances, he would have liked to be desperate, to remind both of them what it was like to be overwhelmed by need, but this was better: there was no excuse for not taking it very slow. He mapped her throat with his lips and fingers, and then her shoulder, and her collarbones. Her throat moved against his cheek as she swallowed. Her breasts were heavy against his chest; he rested his face against the tender skin of her inner arm for a moment, his eyelashes crushed against the curve of her breast. She stroked his hair, her other hand resting on his leg. The trailing ends of her hair prickled against his shoulder.

"I love you," he said, his voice so raw and low he half-hoped she couldn't hear him, and kissed the inside of her elbow. She smelled like spring. He let her settle back in the circle of his arms and nuzzled her belly. She clutched at his back and drew him up, throwing her arms around him.

"Everything okay?" he murmured against her jaw, stroking her shoulder blades.

"That tickles," she said, sniffling and tossing her hair out of her eyes.

"Tell me what would be better," he said, and she half-laughed, her smile misty.

"You can't have forgotten _that_ much, Bill Adama," she said softly. He brushed her hair away from her face. A few strands caught on his fingers and her smile wavered. He kissed her cheek.

"It's all right," he said. "It'll be all right." He cradled her against him, her legs across his legs.

She sighed, her hands slipping down his ribs and undoing the buttons of his trousers almost before he realized it. He kissed her again, lingeringly, and shifted her off his lap so that he could stand and shuck off the rest of his uniform, tossing the trousers over a chair. She shimmied out of his shorts, kneeling in the creases of the blanket, and he took a long moment to drink in the sight of her naked in his bed. She had pulled the sheet across her chest with one hand, but the curve of her hip was lovely.

"You really are beautiful," he said.

"Show me," she said, her eyes large and shiny. She bit her lip. He knelt on the bed, braced on one hand, and tipped her chin up with the other. She caught her breath.

"Believe me," he said, and kissed her. Her hands fluttered against his chest and crept up to the sides of his face; she held his ears as if she were drowning, and he were her raft. The sheet was trapped between them and he pulled it away as he crawled into the bed, wrapping it around her back instead. She knelt in his lap and he stroked her back underneath the sheet. Her eyes searched his face. "It'll be all right," he said again.

"I believe you," she said, sounding almost surprised. Her fingertips brushed his thigh and he leaned into her touch. He was hard for her, not aching, but ready. Gods, he'd been ready for a long time. He couldn't remember when talking to her had become the high point of his day instead of an irritation, but she stirred things in him that he'd thought were gone for good. He brushed his hand down her thigh and she pressed closer to him. Her hand slipped across his ribs and his hip and his thighs tensed in anticipation. When her fingers wrapped around his shaft, he grunted, and she smiled, watching him, and kept her eyes on his as she settled down over him. He sucked in his breath at the sweetness of her body's embrace. The soft heat of her pulled all the blood into his groin and made him dizzy. Her head tipped back as she eased down until their hips were flush against each other, and then she looked at him, caressing his cheek with the backs of her fingertips. She smiled that smile that seemed to catch in the middle and he turned his face into her palm and kissed the ball of her thumb.

She shifted and he groaned again, his fingers tightening on her hip. Her smile was a little smug when he looked at her, her eyes narrowed with pleasure. "Turns out it's mostly a matter of instinct."

He patted her bottom in a sham of reassurance, just for the pleasure of touching her. "I wouldn't have forgotten this."

"You'd better not," she said, serious again, and he kissed her. Her mouth opened, the edges of her teeth sharp in the moment before her tongue slid against his. He wanted to melt into her body, to press her into him until she was part of him. She nudged her knees into his hips, bracing herself as she rocked gently against him. He let her set the pace, stroking whatever part of her came under his hand: she fit over him, under him, against him, it didn't matter where he was touching her, because they fit and she was alive. He could feel her blood pounding when he kissed her neck. He could hear her breathing rasping in her chest in time with his own. She was all around him and it was what he'd always wanted. Pleasure rose in him like the roar of engines at takeoff. He was lifted by it, the swell of bliss and love and the poignancy of losing her, and he held her hips with one hand and pushed up into her, his other arm wrapped around her back. It was too much to bear. He gritted his teeth and pushed against her rhythm until her breath caught and she went still and tense, a strangled little noise escaping from the pale column of her throat. He wanted to pause, to hold her and soothe her, but he couldn't stop. He held her shuddering body against his until he thought their ribs would lock together, caught up in the live rush of her, pushing up and up until the reality of her overwhelmed him and he sobbed his release into her neck. She held him close, her arms wrapped around his slippery back. He cradled her against him, trying to catch his breath, trying not to let tears push out of his eyes with the force of what he felt for her. It took a long moment before he could draw in a shaky breath and loosen his hold on her. Even then, he didn't let go and neither did she; they disengaged just enough to slide down into the bunk. He pulled the blanket over both of them and she laid her head on his chest. He rested his hand on her hip where it was notched against his, his other arm crooked under her neck. He was exhausted, drawn out of himself but not hollow, and happier than he could remember.

"Thank you," she said after a while, her voice small and sleepy.

He bent his elbow and cupped his hand over her ear and cheek. "You know better than that."

The quiet settled between them. "I do," she said at last, when he was almost asleep, and he felt her shift closer to him.

He vaguely remembered, in the morning, the brush of her hair across his face, and the touch of her lips as she kissed his forehead, and flinging his arm across the empty warmth of the place where she had been. When he got up, she was already gone: back to the sick bay or back to Colonial One, he wasn't sure. He passed his hand over the pillow where her head had been and something tickled his fingers. He fished under the pillow and came up with a hank of her hair, glossy but limp. Her hair was falling out. Her body was giving up, ravaged by the chemical that was keeping her alive. The thought made his chest ache. He stroked the lock of hair gently, and then wound it around his fingers, twisting it into a loop. He got up with an effort - he was stiff this morning - and shuffled over to the dresser. The drawer stuck a little as he pulled it out and reached for the photograph. He tucked the lock of hair under it and stood for a moment with his fingers resting on the folded clothes piled over his mementos. The room went out of focus for a moment. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and crossed to the sink. He was due in CIC in a few minutes. The sweetness would have to stay in the dark.


End file.
